The Wild Card
by Lady Irish Rose
Summary: Xover with Kill Bill: A young assassin leaves the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad and relocates to Boston, MA just in time for the Yakavetta trial. For better or for worse, she meets and befriends the Saints of South Boston.
1. Chapter I

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing original from the Kill Bill realm or The Boondock Saints realm. Quentin Tarantino and Troy Duffy respectively have those privileges. I just like to play with the characters. I make no money off this, sadly. I could really use it as the typical impoverished college student. All it really does is act as an outlet for my overactive imagination. The plot is mine, as is the female lead character and any other new characters.

**SLIGHT AU WARNING: **Obviously since she is a DiVA member, Kill Bill is slightly AU. And the story starts right after poor Rocco is killed by Yakavetta and the twins finally reunite with their papa. The Yakavetta trial has not occurred yet. The timeline is basically right for both movies, oddly enough. Because on the Kill Bill end the story starts right after the massive assault on Beatrix Kiddo at her wedding rehearsal. The movie was set in 2003 (it was made in 2003, so I'm going by that) when she woke up from her coma four years afterward, which puts the attack right about in 1999.

**Full Summary: **After tragedy and betrayal, a member of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad quits and walks out on the only family she has known for almost twenty years. She changes her name and moves to Boston, Massachusetts in the hopes of starting her life over and forgetting her past. While there she meets and befriends Irish twin brothers, Connor and Murphy MacManus, and their father. When a notorious mafia boss is publicly executed on the day of his trial, she learns the shocking truth behind her new friends. They might just have more in common than she originally thought. But can she really become involved in the game of the crime world's power struggles again? Would she have a choice? Her decision might mean the difference between life and death for the Saints.

**Rating: **Well, considering the two movies this fic is the bastard child of—definitely R (M). The beginning is rather PG-13ish (T), so I'll change the rating later on. Plus this site has this annoying habit of filtering out the M-rated fics by default, so I figure it's wiser to market it as a T-rating first just to rake in the readers and reviewers and then change it. Mature content is of course for the blood, gore, violence, extremely coarse language, and the sex, drugs, and rock and roll. If you're fans of the movies then I believe you can handle the story. Suddenly I'm being assaulted with the song "My Favorite Things" from _The Sound of Music_…

**_When Love cast me out it was Cruelty who took pity on me_**

**_ -Kushiel's Dart_**

**Chapter I**

-_Boston__, Massachusetts__—April, 1999 (About Two Months before the Yakavetta Trial)_

Everything in this apartment existed under a thick skein of dust. It lay so heavy on the air that she wondered if breathing it in would prove detrimental to her health. The proprietor—well, she supposed the more appropriate term would be landlord—had told her this place was a "fixer-upper". He had also added that, when cleaned up, it could be quite a quaint little dwelling place. He deemed it just perfect for a young, single, working woman. The rent was flexible, and, having children of his own, he often understood when circumstances called for delayed payments. When she assured him payment would never be a problem, he appeared not to believe her. She could not help but feel slightly annoyed at his lack of faith in her ability to make payments on time. Wisely, she kept silent on the issue. Who was she to snub compassion when it was so freely offered?

The landlord was a pot-bellied Irish-American, with more jowls sprouting from underneath his jaw than black hairs on his head. His complexion was the ruddy coloring one would expect of a man who drank of the spirits, and drank often. His brown eyes were perpetually watery from beneath those bushy black brows. She supposed at one point in his life he might have been an attractive man, but age and toil had robbed him of such physical attributes. In spite of that, he was a jovial fellow with a deep, throaty laugh that made her wonder if he were to don a white wig and a prosthetic beard if he would be able to pass off as Santa Clause.

She had looked at many apartments in the past week. She could have afforded one that was five times as expensive as this humble abode due to the sizable inheritance her parents had left behind and her own independently garnered assets. Circumstances being what they were, she thought it best to keep things simple. She was already making things risky enough for herself by remaining in the States in one of her favorite cities no less. But she hoped that the ones who might be inclined to seek her out would expect her to flee the country. By remaining closer to danger, she could keep herself further from harm.

Well, the danger was only as real as she imagined it. She could be quite mistaken and there might not be any danger at all. Either way, she did not want to be found by _them_. After what they had done, after what _he_ had orchestrated, she could not trust that she would not do something very rash were she to see them again. Normally she was a person of the finest maintained control. In her line of work—correction, her _previous_ line of work—maintaining control was a necessity if one expected to succeed. But there were times when exceptions to her personal rule could be found. Just thinking about the entire debacle and the images it evoked made her curl her fists. But she was skilled enough to master herself when in the presence of others. Mr. McClellan, the landlord, continued to prattle on, oblivious.

"And one of the great things about this place is you're allowed to have pets. I believe you mentioned something about a cat, Miss Rosdale?" he queried. He had his pudgy hands clasped over his distended stomach.

"Uh, yes, just the one though," she replied. The words rolled off her tongue with no trace or hint of a foreign accent. She had more than enough practice sheathing herself within different accents and languages. Passing herself off as an American was not going to be very difficult. She had spent more of her life in this country than she had in England, the country of her birth.

By the end of the hour, she had written out a check for the first two months' rent in advance. Mr. McClellan had not even asked for it, but she handed it over anyway with a small smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. He looked at the plain blue check in wonderment for a moment, obviously caught off guard by the action. Her attention was focused on the area that was to become her new home. An immense amount of cleaning would have to be done if she expected to live in here comfortably. Nonetheless, she felt as if she'd made the right choice here. In spite of the dozens of other more inhabitable apartments, she felt like this was the one where she belonged.

Mr. McClellan licked his lips. She thought that might be a nervous habit, but she was not sure what he should be nervous about. "Well, ah, that settles that, then. If you need anything else I'm in apartment 114 on the first floor. And if you don't know your way around town, I'd be happy to give you directions. Also, I should mention there's a fine bar a couple of blocks over called McGinty's. The man who owns it is a friend of mine. We all call him Doc. He's a real nice fellow. Comes straight from the homeland, you know?"

The homeland he was referring to must have been Ireland. She was well aware that in South Boston one could not swing a dead cat without hitting an Irishman. She, of course, had nothing against the Irish or their country. It was merely an observation she had made. Actually, of all the Irish people she had become acquainted with over the years, there were few that she had really disliked. In general, they were a very charming, affable people. If she was not fond of the Irish, she certainly would not have chosen to live in the Irish district of South Boston.

Mr. McClellan continued, "Anyway, I told him I'd tell any new folks moving into the building that I would tell them to swing by the bar for a pint. It really is a decent place, Miss Rosdale. Doc does not tolerate any disrespect towards his customers, and that goes double for the ladies. And, if you're looking for a fellow of your own, that's a good place to start. In fact, that's where my oldest daughter met her husband." His homely face split into a nostalgic smile as he spoke. His enthusiasm coupled with his easy nature made him almost endearing.

She wanted to laugh sardonically at the part where he treaded around her love life, or, rather, lack thereof.

Instead she smiled appreciatively and nodded while saying softly, "I'll keep that in mind."

--

The mid-April air was breezy and warm. The lights of the city blocked out most of the twinkling stars so that only a few could be discerned in the deep blue-black curtain of night. The sliver of the Moon glowed faintly in defiance of the orange glows of the city. If this had been an uninhabited speck of land where the technology of humans did not hold sway it would have been a most beautiful night. It was still quite pleasant as it was; pleasant enough to draw her out of her new, dusty apartment and onto the narrow deck outside of it. She leaned her elbows against the edge and let the sounds of cars, music, and voices meld together and wash over her.

She felt something rub against her leg and then wrap itself around her ankles. She leaned down to scoop up a black tabby, which purred in contentment and nestled against her chest. She stroked her cat's fur absentmindedly. Her thoughtful gaze continued to stare outwards at nothing in particular.

"Think we're gonna like it here, Archie?" she asked quietly. Even when she was alone she spoke in her adopted accent. It was best to keep at it all the time so one's tongue became used to it. Besides, living in the States for nearly twenty years had certainly expunged much of her English inflection. She had only been eight when she had left London to live in the States with her new guardian. Her parents had died in a horrible accident, or so the authorities had said. For one who was acquainted with her parents' history, she knew foul play was just as likely, perhaps even more so.

The grief over her parents' violent deaths had long since waned enough so that she felt only twinges here and there when she was unexpectedly reminded. Whenever she explored the memories of her own free will, she looked upon them from a distance, as if they were memories belonging to someone else. The thought of revenge had entered her mind a few times, but it eventually dissipated altogether on its own. Her mother and father had been the warmest, affectionate parents a girl could ever ask for. She had lacked for nothing, most especially love and attention. However, their esteem as parents was a completely separate issue from their esteem as people. It was impossible to imagine that a woman could be a ruthless killer one moment and a devoted mother the next. The same went for her father who could (and would) snap necks as easily as he would playfully tickle his daughter's.

It went without saying that enemies had accumulated over the years along with allies. Her parents had known this all too well, which was why they had started training her in their ways at the earliest moment simply for the sake of protecting herself. Even at the innocent age of eight (though her upbringing could never produce a truly "innocent" child), she had known one of her parents' enemies might strike. She knew a day might come when one or both of her parents would not walk through the front door. It was their lot in life, she had been told. They could no more change their fates (or even walk away for that matter) than she could turn the sky pink. Even somewhat expecting their deaths did nothing to assuage the anguish she felt when a portly police officer had taken her upon his lap and explained in that doleful, syrupy tone adults always use when talking to young children about something dreadful that her parents were no longer with them. She had sniffled and sobbed like a little girl ought to at the news. She had buried her face in that officer's chest and soaked his uniform with her tears.

_Look at how easily I walked away, Mum and Dad. You're telling me you couldn't have done the same?_ That was only partly true, though. She had not "walked away" by any means. And it had not been "easy" at all. As a matter of fact, she was almost certain that she would never really walk away from it permanently. One way or another, it was in her blood, in her upbringing, in everything she had been raised to believe. It was almost ironic (or not depending on what angle one approached the situation) that when her parents had died, she had been handed into the care of another just like them. Her adoptive father had continued her training where her parents had left off. Everything she was today right down to the myriad of skills she harbored she owed to the man who had raised and loved her as his own daughter—Bill.

Her eyes glistened with tears she refused to shed even when her cat was the only other presence around. She would not cry over her situation. Crying would solve nothing. Crying would not undo what Bill and the others had done. Crying would not waken her friend from her coma, nor would it save her friend's innocent and defenseless unborn child. Tears would not wash away the pain of the betrayal she felt so deep it scraped her soul. Tears could not overcome the fact that while Bill may have been a heartless, vindictive bastard and she could never forgive him, he was still the man who had taken her in when she had no one else. He had offered his love and protection freely. Even amidst the anger, the sorrow, and the pain, she still loved him like a father.

And she hated him for that.

--

The patrons of _McGinty's_ had dwindled down to just a few by the time the clock struck eleven. Doc was wiping the counter down while his granddaughter gathered up the empty and half-full mugs of beer littering the tables. The jukebox continued to wheeze out old folk tunes that just might have predated the aging bartender. Two men sat side by side at the end of the counter as if off in their own little world. Both of them were smoking cigarettes, and both had mugs a quarter of the way filled with dark beer in front of them. At first glance, one might never suspect the two were related much less twin brothers. It took someone of extended acquaintance to pick out the obscure resemblances.

The slightly taller one had dirty blonde hair that spiked up in some places. His brother was of a stockier build with dark brown hair that laid flat on his head. The most defining features of similarity between the two men were the identical sets of vivid blue eyes perched beneath their brows. At the moment, both pairs of eyes were fixated on the television screen hanging just above the rack of wine and liquor bottles behind the counter. The eleven o'clock news had just started and the first story of the hour centered on the upcoming trial of the infamous Italian Mafia Don Giuseppi Yakavetta, otherwise known as Pappa Joe. They were currently interviewing the mobster's attorney, a sly weasel of a man who had successfully diverted jail from his client countless times before. Anthony Bellosi, of course, did not deserve all the credit for keeping Pappa Joe out of the slammer. The assorted judges and juries that had come and gone over the years, whether through bribery or blackmail, were just as responsible.

The two men watching the television had not a doubt in their minds that Pappa Joe would come out on top of this trial just as he had all the others. That was how their skewed system worked nowadays. The wealthy and the powerful were almost always assured that they would never grace the inside of a jail cell. And if they did, it was never for very long. They would spend perhaps one or two nights at the most while those of lesser fortunes could only expect the harshest of sentences. Murderers like Pappa Joe were regularly cheating the justice system and walking free to continue their perverted reigns of corruption and filth. And most people did nothing but watch in morbid fascination, blindly addicted to the exploits of these mafiosos.

Most people watched, some people grumbled, but very few people actually did something.

"Keep smilin' ye fuckin' bastard," Connor, the lighter-haired twin, muttered darkly as he watched the sleazy lawyer grin at the reporter's comment about Yakavetta's chances. He crushed the remains of his cigarette into the ash tray. "Pappa Joe may escape the laws o' man, but he won't fuckin' escape the laws o'God this time."

His brother Murphy issued no response but smiled wanly in agreement while grounding his own cigarette into the ash tray. He drained the rest of his beer in one gulp just in time for Doc's granddaughter Moira to come by with the tray. He smiled at the young woman and set the mug on her tray, earning a flashing grin in response. They had known Moira almost as long as they had known her grandfather, who was one of their closest friends. She was a lively young woman with golden curls that framed her heart-shaped face and a pair of bright hazel eyes. She was only a few years younger than the twins, who were twenty-seven. Moira was a petite woman, her height only two inches above the five foot line. What she lacked in height she made up for in personality and intelligence, not to mention the temper of a true Irishwoman. Sometimes Murphy reckoned the girl could give his own mother a run for her money.

She divided her time between school at Boston College to become a registered nurse and helping out her grandfather at the bar. Doc adored this grandchild above all the others, whom Murphy and Connor had never actually met. In fact, he said all the others were worthless drunkards who would never amount to anything. The men who frequented the bar flirted and advanced upon Moira at their own risk. Doc had no problem with the attention his granddaughter received, in fact he downright expected it since, in his words, "She's the fuckin' pr-pr-pr—FUCK! ASS!—prettiest lass ye'll ever find this side o' the Atlantic Ocean." But if any man dared to dishonor Moira, a sound thrashing was to follow by the bar's most loyal patrons, including Murphy and Connor.

Once upon a time Murphy had entertained the idea of asking her out on a date. Out of all the men that came to the bar, Doc considered the MacManus brothers the most eligible in regards to Moira. But the crush amounted to nothing and eventually disappeared altogether. He flirted with her all the time out of pure harmless fun, and she was well aware of it. They were more like brother and sister nowadays than a potential couple. Besides, even if he wanted to ask her out on a date (forgetting for the moment his quest to hunt evil), another man had his eyes on her.

"Don't ye have an exam to be studyin' for, Moira? Ye shouldn' be up at all hours caterin' to drunken eejits like us," Murphy joked, his blue eyes twinkling humorously.

Moira snorted and rolled her eyes. "The exam is next week. Besides, with all this tip money, I think I'm close enough to bribing my way to an A." Surely enough, the apron around her waist was bulging with dollar bills.

Her attention flicked over to the television that was currently keeping Connor supposedly enthralled. She shook her head disdainfully, shifting her well defined hips to balance the platter of glasses.

"Jeez, what is so damn interesting about this Yakavetta guy? I tell ya, the media just loves to blow things out of proportion. I am so sick and tired of hearing about him every day. It isn't like there aren't other bastards out there doing the same things he's doing," she grumbled in annoyance.

"Aye," Connor murmured thoughtfully as Moira relieved him of his not entirely empty glass.

_And that's why we do what we do._

Though he fought the urge, he could not help but take a quick peak at Moira's tantalizing backside as she trotted away humming to herself. He felt that familiar pang of longing pierce his heart, but logic and common sense quelled it. He could not fathom doing this work and trying to have a relationship at the same time. It was not only unfair to both parties, but also dangerous. Moira was such a bright, shining speck of light in the darkness that now seemed to infect everything the Irishman saw. He could not let the horrors of his calling taint her.

_Destroy all that which is evil so that which is good may flourish._

Moira embodied the goodness he wished to preserve in this increasingly decadent society. Even while the world was slowly ripping apart at the seams she stood strong and tall (figuratively speaking, of course), happily living her life with the kindness of spirit Connor wished more people were endowed with. He needed her to stay this way, he needed her to be blissfully unaware of the true horrors humans were capable of. It made his work more meaningful that way, even though he would not have needed a focal point such as Moira to give his work significance. God had asked this of him and his family. He had a purpose in life granted from the Almighty himself, and that was a hell of a lot more than could be said for many people.

However, knowing that each murderer or rapist he and his brother and father sent to hell was one less murderer or rapist that could endanger Moira made it all worthwhile. He would protect her from them at all costs. And if that meant never revealing his true feelings for her—watching her from the sidelines as a spectator who could merely observe and never interfere—then, so be it. He would just bury those feelings deep in his heart and deal with the pain.

After all, according to the papers, he was a Saint, and what Saint was never acquainted with pain and sacrifice?

--

**A/N**: I know it's not the most eventful of chapters, but it's meant more to be introductory and to set the tone. Reviews are greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter II

I'm glad I was able to get this chapter in before my boyfriend came to visit. Otherwise it would have had to wait until later in the week. Thanks to **kabshaw**, **Aspen Le Fay**, **dragonzfire718**, and **Anasazi**** Darkmoon** for reviewing the debut chapter of this story!

**Chapter II**

It took her about a week to transform her apartment from a fixer-upper to an actual living space. She had scrubbed the floors, walls, windows, countertops, and the bathroom from top to bottom until she felt she would die of the fumes from the astringent cleaning products. The domestic work had turned out to be surprisingly therapeutic, though. She was cleaning away dust and neglect instead of blood and gore. She had been able to take her mind off her troubling past for just a little while and focus on getting over a year's worth of soap scum and slime off her bathtub. It was rather refreshing.

She stood back and admired her work, yellow gloved hands resting on her hips. Though she did not feel very clean herself, her apartment fair gleamed from its attentions. At least now she felt like she could take a bath or shower without fear of acquiring some mold-borne disease. She looked to Archie, who was currently engaged in batting around a toy mouse she had bought for him. He had been with her for about three years now since she had rescued him from the home of a child-trafficking drug lord in Russia. Why a man who made a living from selling children and a whole collection of potent, illegal drugs would have an affinity for kittens, she never came to understand. The kitten had been in far better condition than the children he had sold into untold suffering.

It did not matter anymore, for the man was dead by her hand. She had been contracted to end his life and so many others before and after him. Some had been worse than him and some had been not quite as bad. And then there were the few who had not been very bad at all, but had merely ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The past was the past. There was no point in feeling guilt for things she could not undo. But guilt, this alien emotion that she had sought to quell as a teenager in ruthless training to become a contract killer, was rearing like a hydra. For so long she had managed to suppress her conscience, making an art out of cool, methodical dispassion. Her cat was one of the few things that had coaxed her pathetic and neglected humanity out of the shell she had become.

_Beatrix was the only one who did not laugh at me when I brought Archie back. She understood. She always understood…_

Before her memories could drag her further into emotions she did not wish to entertain, she forced her mind to shutter them out. She was not ready to deal with them. She did not feel she ever would be ready to deal with them.

Going into the bathroom, she bent over the sink and splashed cool water on her face. Her reflection gazed back at her with a somber mien when she straightened. Dark brown curls had sprung free from the makeshift pony-tail she had made, framing a serious, but comely face with delicately molded, high cheek-bones. Soft, pink lips shaped a mouth that was unaccustomed to smiling often. Her fair skin was shining under a sheen of sweat.

"Erica Lynn Rosdale, welcome to your life," she whispered. "Better take care not to fuck this one up."

A pleading mew at the doorway broke through the woman's thoughts. Archie padded in and promptly began rubbing up against his mistress's legs. She sighed and picked him up, holding him up to face the mirror.

"What do you think, Archie? Do you think I can be Erica?" she asked dryly.

As expected, her feline companion merely purred and started to swing his paw at the other cat he saw in the mirror. Erica or someone else, she would always be the same person to him. She would always be the same loving mistress who fed him, cuddled him, and spoiled him rotten. She let him down and followed him out the bathroom to make his afternoon dish of tuna mixed with sardines. She watched him eat the noisome smelling mush with a thoughtful expression.

"So, I guess I'd better get around to getting a job. Not that I really need the money, but…it would be nice to have someone to talk to," she said conversationally.

"Not that," she added, with a hint of a sardonic smile, "you're not fun to talk to. Don't get me wrong, you make a lot of interesting points in our conversations. Or, at least, you do in my imagination when I imagine you talking back to me. But, you see the problem here…I'll go mad…well, crazy. Americans say crazy usually."

She stared at the few groceries she had left, drumming her fingers on the table. Her own lunch would probably consist of a sandwich or a piece of fruit. When it came to cooking, her skills fell considerably short. No kitchen deserved such as her.

"Maybe I should gussy up and go out tonight," she mused. "What was that bar Mr. McClellan spoke of…_McGinty's_?"

Archie provided no answer. He was boisterously chomping on his meal, oblivious to all else.

"Right, so I'm going to imagine you just said 'yes, that's the one' and 'wear the cute green blouse'," she said glibly, rising to shower. "Who knows? Maybe I'll meet my own true love there," she added jokingly.

Archie responded with a sneeze that sounded like it was almost a derisive snort.

--

There were times when Murphy wished he could go back to the way things had been before Saint Patrick's Day. That was the night when the lives of the MacManus brothers had forever changed, though they never would have guessed it at the time. That was the night they had taken their first baby steps onto the path God had set before them like a dark beacon. They had trounced a couple Russian mob peons in a bar fight. They had no way of knowing the Russians would return the morning after, wounded in pride and body and rabidly seeking a fatal vengeance.

He would never forget that night he and Connor slept in the prison cell. The voice of the priest had boomed through his skull, empowered by the presence of the Almighty. Over and over he kept hearing the same phrases, the volume progressively getting louder until he thought he would drown in the words.

_They all just watched as her assailant walked away…we must all fear evil men…there is another kind of evil we must fear most…the indifference of good men!_

Rain water had washed over him as it seeped through the cracks in the cement ceiling, and he had no doubt it was infused with God's love and power. Murphy could distinctly remember the sweet scent of roses filling the room. He had never felt closer to God than at that moment. He had felt his heart would almost burst from the Divine Presence swelling within him. And that was when he knew what God wanted him to do. He and Connor had both just known from that moment what their Lord was Calling them to do.

"Destroy all that which is evil," his brother had whispered in wonder.

"So that which is good may flourish," Murphy had responded, sounding equally awed.

But before all that, life had been simple. Before all that, Rocco had been alive. Murphy and Connor's best friend had died three weeks ago tonight.

"No-no-now! Everyone—FUCK! ASS!—qu-quiet! We're all goin' ta have a ttttoast ter our lad Rocco," Doc announced, his shaky voice somehow managing to silence the mass of people gathered in the small bar.

Everyone solemnly bowed their heads in respect while Connor stood.

"Roc, I know yer up there lookin' down on us unless, o' course, yer in the girls' locker room or watchin' Angelina Jolie in the shower," the Irishman said, evoking a number of agreeing chuckles around the room. "But, in case ye've takin' time from those perverted pursuits ta check in on yer lads, just know that we miss ye, and we're always thinkin' about ye."

"And the Saints will get the fucking bastard who killed you, man!" someone shouted from the audience.

Connor and Murphy's identical blue gazes met with solemn intensity. Unspoken words flashed between. _Yes, yes they would._

Murphy raised his glass high and intoned while keeping his eyes on his twin, "Ta Roc!"

The dark-haired MacManus knocked back his beer in a single gulp and set the glass down with a resounding thump. His eyes wandered over the chattering bar patrons, noting how many of them he did not recognize. Doc's business had soared once word had gone out that the Russians had decided to pull out. While this was definitely good for the old Irishman, Murphy found he missed it when the bar had been frequented by a few loyal patrons, including Connor, Rocco, and himself.

Although he could not say he was disappointed with the considerable increase in the feminine presence. There was one woman in particular he had noticed. Unlike the rest of the girls in the bar, she had separated herself from the crowd. She sat isolated in a corner by herself, sipping on a martini and appraising the proceedings of the bar as if she were overseeing a court hearing. Half of her brown curls were pulled back behind her head, while the rest brushed over her shoulder just above her modest cleavage. She wore a dark green, low-cut blouse with sleeves that flared out at the shoulders and dark blue, straight-leg jeans. Black heels protruded from the ends of her pant-legs, looking sharp enough to stab someone with. How women walked around in heels so narrow, Murphy had never been able to figure out.

"Murph," he heard Moira say, "why don't you go and talk to her? She's been over there in that corner for the past half hour all by herself. She looks lonely."

Before he could even respond to the small woman, she was being whisked away by his brother for a dance. He watched the two for a few seconds, wondering idly to himself if his brother would be spending the night at Moira's apartment tonight before he decided to heed his friend's advice. He grabbed another glass of beer and ambled over to the corner where she sat, twirling her olive around in her drink. She watched him approach her, making him feel unaccountably uneasy for some reason. The expression on her face had not changed one whit from when she had been watching the drunken revelers, his twin numbered among them by now, most likely.

Her eyes were the same color as her shirt, save for being a few shades lighter. They were more like an olive green, really. For all that they belonged to a mortal woman, Murphy could feel those eyes pierce through him. Sharp, shrewd, and altogether very intense was how Murphy would describe those eyes. All the lines he had at his disposal evaporated under the unexpected force of her stare.

The nameless woman did not say anything when he stood directly in front of her.

_Fuck, come on, Murphy…she's just a lass._

"Um, hi," he stuttered lamely.

The corner of the woman's mouth curled a bit. Murphy could not discern if she was smirking or genuinely smiling at first.

"Hello," she replied.

More awkward silence ensued.

"Did you want to sit?" she asked. She smiled, and the eyes that were so piercing and intense from before had been overcome by a glow of mirth.

"Aye, if the lady doesn't mind. I figured ye could use some company," Murphy responded in what, to his mind, sounded smooth. He slid into the chair across from her while she shifted her position to face him.

"I'm Murphy," he informed her.

"Nice to meet you, Murphy," she said. Her voice was pleasantly pitched, but her accent was difficult to place. It was a generic American accent, one that dominated the movies and television shows. She did not sound like a Boston native.

"And what might yer name be, or am I just ta call ye 'green-eyes'?" he inquired wryly.

He saw the slightest hint of color rise to her fair cheeks and he silently cheered himself for somehow getting through her guard. Upon closer inspection, he could see that she was a very lovely, well-proportioned woman. She wore very little make-up, which was quite refreshing. A breath of silver eye shadow, some mascara, dark eyeliner, and a dash of color to the lips were all that adorned her fair face. Murphy always found the propensity of the fairer sex to paint themselves up very irritating. He could usually find something naturally beautiful in most women he saw (some women, including one hulk of a former co-worker, were an exception). He found it far more eye-pleasing when make-up was used to enhance what beauty was already there.

"Sorry. My name's Erica. I kinda just moved here from grad school and I'm trying to get my bearings," she said.

Murphy nodded in understanding. This was probably her first experience living on her own. He felt a dash of sympathy for the young woman.

"I'm sorry about your friend…the one you guys just toasted," Erica murmured sympathetically. Her eyes had softened to kindness.

Murphy quelled the flare of pain that tore at his heart. Rocco's death, though three weeks past, was like an unhealed wound, raw and tender. Guilt, anger, and grief were injuries that healed slowly in his family.

"He was a good man…well, he meant well, I s'pose. He was a good friend, too," he said softly.

"Though I'm not quite sure what was meant by the last part," she continued, her tone growing more casual. "What was that about the 'Saints'?"

Murphy blinked back his surprise. It was not that he was disappointed the fame he and his brother had garnered in their escapades had failed to reach the woman. He was more taken aback by it, since for the past few weeks their media-gotten name of the "Saints" had been plastered over the papers and television news shows. Within South Boston, one would have to truly be out of touch with the world to have never even heard of one of the exploits of the Saints.

"Oh, ye must definitely be new," he said lightly, hoping his voice and demeanor betrayed nothing. If he said nothing on the subject, he feared it would look suspicious. After everything that had happened, he was slightly more aware of the repercussions the choice he and his brother had made had on other people. The less people who knew or even suspected the true identities of the "Saints", the better it was for both parties.

"The 'Saints' are these lads who've killed a bunch o' criminals and mob guys, especially the ones that've managed to escape the laws o' regular justice," he explained, carefully watching her reaction.

Erica took it all in, her eyes lightening up with unfeigned intrigue. "So, these men are like vigilantes administering their own form of justice?"

Murphy did not particularly enjoy being named thusly, as he knew of no vigilantes that were on missions set forth to them by God. He, his brother, and their father were fulfilling a sacred Calling. Of course, he could not tell Erica any of that. He would have to grudgingly concede that the actions of the MacManuses were going to look like plain vigilante work to everyone else.

"I guess ye could put it that way," he admitted, biting back resentment.

Erica stared at him for a while, as if she were weighing his words carefully in her mind. It was becoming clear that this was a woman who did not miss much. She probably heard some of the rancor in his tone and was now analyzing it in her mind. She could not be any older than Moira, but there was something about her that eclipsed the normal trappings of age. He wondered what those light green eyes concealed from the world.

_Course we all have our wee little secrets_, he thought to himself. He ought to know, for the secrets he harbored were darker and deeper than most.

"Well, looks like I have some reading up to do," Erica declared, breaking through what was quickly becoming an awkward silence.

They talked some more at length about far more trivial matters. Slowly enough, whatever had been keeping the young woman in such reserve was loosening its hold and she spoke more easily. He came to learn that she had studied psychology at a university on the west coast and had acquired her master's degree in the field, though she had no idea what she would do about a job. She had studied a fair amount of languages, fluently speaking Spanish, French, Italian, and German as well as Latin. It was almost as impressive as Murphy and Connor's own repertoire of spoken tongues. She expressed her interest in getting a job as a translator or interpreter, perhaps at a hospital if she could manage it.

"I figure whatever I learned about psychology could be useful there, as well," she said.

Her martini glass had already been emptied, as well as Murphy's glass of beer. He made a motion for Moira, holding up two fingers to let her know to bring by two more beers.

"Ye do drink beer, right? Not just girly drinks?" he asked, clearly amused.

Erica smiled in a self-deprecating way. "I don't drink that much, actually. But I'll take a beer."

Murphy snorted. "A college girl and ye don't drink? I thought that was all college kids did."

She was silent for a moment, her face unreadable. "So, what about you, Murphy? We've been talking all about me for the past half-hour."

Knowing he did not need to be told twice the subject had been changed, he decided to oblige the lady. He told her about how he and his twin brother came over from Ireland some years ago at first to find their estranged father who had left them at the age of two. They ended up carving out a niche of sorts, if one could call it that. He did not elaborate overmuch on certain points, like how he and Connor squatted in a squalid dump of a building that was touch and go with the hot water and heat. He told her about his fiery, hellcat mother who had selfishly been hoarding the knowledge of which twin was truly firstborn to herself for their entire lives.

Erica found that notion far too comical. "Are you serious? That's ingenious."

But the laughter and wide grin it had provoked was well worth the extreme annoyance he found in the situation. While he had found her lovely before, she was stunning when she actually smiled and laughed. If he had met her at any other time in his life he may well have considered asking her out. Being who he was, he could never do that with a clear conscience. Aside from the fact that it would unfairly place her in danger, he would not be the ideal boyfriend. He would not be able to give her the kind of companionship a woman like her deserved.

His brother had been enamored of Moira for quite some time now, and Murphy knew it was their work that held him back from striking up anything more than friendship with her. Perhaps they might share a casual night together sometime in the near future, but it would never go beyond that. If Connor had to suffer without the warmth and love of a woman, so would Murphy. It was only right and fair.

He saw her eyes flicker over to where Connor was thoroughly making a fool of himself by trying to dance an Irish jig with all the uncoordinated grace of a drunkard.

"So, that's Connor? You two don't look very much alike. At least not from this distance," she remarked.

"Aye, that's because we're…what do ye call 'em?" he replied, searching for the term. "Fraternal twins, that's it."

She watched his brother with growing amusement, shaking her head at his antics.

"I don't have any siblings. It must be nice. To know you'll always have someone," she said softly. A wistful glimmer lit up her eyes before she blinked it away, taking a drink from her glass of beer. "It must be nice," she repeated, turning her attention back to Murphy.

He felt an overwhelming need to comfort the woman just then. A deep sadness had revealed itself for a merely a moment before it was quickly pulled back behind its tight guard. But it had been there. Sadness mixed in with loneliness.

"Oi, Murph!" Connor interjected. His voice was thick with alcohol, but his speech was not quite slurred yet. It would take a good deal more beer before that happened. "Ye've been over in that corner chattin' up the poor lass long enough! Yer bein' selfish, now! Bring 'er over here!"

Erica's eyes widened. "What does he want?"

Murphy chuckled a bit and stood up. "He just wants to meet ye, for all tha' he's bein' a drunken eejit right now. Don't worry, ye'll like him. Course, ye already met me and can clearly see I'm the better lookin' one."

She laughed. Her cheeks had acquired a pinkish tinge to them ever since she had finished that glass of beer. It made the green of her eyes stand out even more. She rose and took Murphy's proffered arm. He led her over to where a crowd of people were gathered around his brother, who was done with dancing for the time being and was telling stories about his youthful escapades back in the mother country. The MacManus boys ever did love being the center of attention, Connor even more so.

Erica was introduced with a great deal of flourish, and she received a "proper Irish welcome" as the MacManus brothers put it when Doc served her the best of his whiskey on the house. It became quite clear that she had not been lying when she admitted to never drinking very often. There was no other way to put it. The young woman was a lightweight. But she bore it with all good humor. Her cheeks bloomed redder and redder with each shot of whiskey she imbibed. She danced with Connor and Murphy, her gracefulness belying the amount of alcohol coursing through her veins. Even Doc came out from behind the bar to show the girl a thing or two about Irish jigs.

The patrons dwindled down as the night wore on till it was just Doc, the MacManus brothers, and Erica. Moira had retired early, much to Connor's chagrin, stating she had to work at the hospital the next day.

Murphy and Connor had a clear problem on their hands. Erica was leaning against Murphy, her eyes glazed over. They had asked her repeatedly where she lived so they could take her home, but the words she grunted were unintelligible. She kept trying to lie down on the floor, but neither of the twins would let her.

"Shit, this is our fault," Murphy growled. He kept a tight grip on Erica, whose gracefulness had long since been replaced by the tendency to swerve around on her feet.

Connor ran his hands through his dirty blonde hair, trying to think on what to do with the woman who was, by now, completely out of commission.

"No, it's yer fuckin' fault for fillin' the lass up with liquor when she told ye she didn' drink much," the blonde twin retorted. His own sobriety was probably in question, but he was a practiced drinker.

Murphy hissed through clenched teeth as he considered his option. Only one seemed feasible. "We'll have ta take her with us," he stated.

Connor nodded slowly.

"Aye." He looked at the woman who had probably gotten drunker tonight than she had ever been in her life. The morning after would not be very kind to her. And he did not much care for the fact that he would probably be there when she awoke in a place not her own.

"She's not goin' ta be a happy one when she wakes tomorrow," he pointed out.

Murphy had shifted the woman into his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. She was sleeping now, her breaths slow, even, and warm against his neck. Unexpectedly, he felt a pang of warmth and tenderness well up within him. Both of the twins had been raised by their mother to bear a deep and abiding respect for women. The two of them would sooner shoot themselves in the groin rather than take advantage of a woman in Erica's condition. Unfortunately, Erica had only just met them and did not know them well enough to know the two of them would not try anything. He could well imagine how she would react when she would awake tomorrow. And he could not say he would blame her for it.

"Aye…better make sure we're stocked up on ice. I think we might need it," he remarked sardonically.


End file.
